Oh, Catastrophe
by chaoswalking
Summary: Dean Winchester was born a hunter and raised a soldier. All he's ever done is fight the Angels, protect Sammy, obey his father. But when his mother is killed and humanity begins losing the ever-fought war of Heaven and Earth, a desperate Dean does the unthinkable–he summons an Angel, changing the fate of his family and himself forever. (Destiel AU)
1. Chapter 1

_Oh, sweet catastrophe  
Where have you been?  
I've looked for you so desperately  
Inside of this pen  
You're the answer I've needed  
The question I've feared  
I know light is your mother  
But darkness I fear_

"Oh Catastrophe" by Crown the Empire

* * *

They'd been fighting for days now. Monday had been a day to prepare, the hunters gathering their weapons of choice, but nobody knew how to kill an Angel. Tuesday had been been chaos. The front line, gone. Caleb and Mary and Jim. John was quiet that night. In his tent, they could all hear it, a gaping hole in the noises of war. And then he was unbearably loud. Whiskey. That was his cure.

Wednesday was deathly. The second line fell too. Hundreds of them, mostly nameless, mostly unknown. But a few were close to heart–there was Cassie, dead near a battered car. And Andy, crumpled nearly into a ball. The ground was leaf strewn and blood painted and the smell of smoke hung for hours.

Thursday was silent. A lull in the fighting. The hunters huddled together in their scattered tents, praying. The last bottle of Hunter's Helper was passed around, and many drank from it with scrabbling, hopeless fingers and sour, bloody mouths. Their teeth tasted like death. Their skin was rank with it. And on this day, the battlefield was surreal with silence.

Friday was time standing still, time ripping out lungs, time stomping with heavy feet on the hunter's until they bled. They were only human. They could not stop it all.

They buried the dead in hurried trenches. They could not stop. The enemy was coming. The enemy was coming.

The hunters had only one hope.

At twelve o' five Saturday morning, Dean Winchester turned to his brother, and forced a smile. The tent was cold. He held a silver dagger in his hand.

"Ready, Sammy?" he called over his shoulder, arm tensed.

Sam nodded.

The next fight had begun.

...

Castiel was a good soldier. Castiel was a good son and a good brother and a good soldier, but he was not a good believer.

"Why are we fighting, brother?" He asked Uriel this even as they fought and won. They were gathered in Heaven after the initial beginning, the first day of the human week that Castiel so curiously memorized. "What did the humans do wrong?"

Uriel curled the lips of his vessel into a flat frown.

"They have done nothing wrong, Castiel," (he said his name like he would a correcting adult to a trouble-making child). "They have only sullied the name of our Father, if inadvertently. They have forced the Fall of the Morningstar, and we must then make them pay."

Castiel had felt the wind blow him them, the cries of anguish from the humans below a steady sharpness in his mind. If he was an Angel, than he was an Angel of Death for sure. It was his sword that had slain the souls below. It worried him.

"I don't understand," he began, but Uriel had cut him off with a stern glare and a threat to report him to Michael for blasphemy. Those Angels (the blasphemous ones) were not usually seen after. They simply vanished, sunk below into the Earth like a plague of rats after a great disease.

The second human day was a strange one. He'd been ordered to slay the infamous John Winchester with his own blade, but something cold and foreign inside him forced his hand. He staggered back, feet sliding in the mud of the battlefield, the blurs of his brothers and his enemies swaying around him like a moving picture.

Castiel clutched his chest, eyes dry from lack of blinking. Before him John Winchester stood, inferior in every way. His arms were hacked, his face bleeding, his eyes narrowed in such a human sign of defeat and pain that Castiel unconsciously muttered a "forgive me, Father, for I have sinned". But yet he stood, legs bent slightly as he held his own useless weapon in his hands.

"You leave here, and you never come back!" John Winchester hissed. "I ain't about to let you take nobody down."

Castiel tilted his head, and that surge returned like a wave beating against a hollow shore. He beat his wings behind him–visible and vast, they took him away.

That night, he heard tales of his failure, spread like wine over the table of the Archangels. They summoned him to their own place of rest.

Raphael and Michael were the only ones left. There were no interims for Lucifer's spot, or Gabriel's. There were only their empty chairs, high-backed and plain. Castiel knelt down on one knee to approach his holy brothers.

"Castiel," Raphael began. "I am ashamed of you,"

His heart a quickly beating machine, Castiel raised his head to stare.

"But why, Brother? Father has implored me to save. All I can see is destruction."

At this, Raphael rose himself, wings stretching out great and electric behind him. His face was contorted in rage, his hands mere inches from Castiel's throat. Instead of choking him (a disgustingly human reaction), however, he placed a hand on Castiel's forehead.

"I'm truly sorry for this," Michael spoke up from behind them, as Castiel forced himself to be still, be silent. "But Raphael is right. Punishment is in order."

"Michael, no–"

But he was silenced by the sudden jerk of his Grace being dragged out through Raphael's hand.

By the time he had left, Castiel, Angel of the Lord, had been stripped of half hs Grace, and his middle-rank soldier status.

The next three days, he followed orders blindly, the ache of half his powers sore and raw like a still-bleeding wound. He killed humans, watched their souls leave their bodies in plumes of color and distorted, cloudy light. This time, Castiel ignored the guilt in his chest. This time, he followed orders.

The final day of battle was set for Saturday, at twelve o' five in the morning. Castiel stood behind with the lesser-rank Angels, his sword ready and his wings kept close to his back for warmth. It was cold, and everything smelled like burning flesh.

"Remember your duty, Brothers and Sisters," boomed Raphael from before them, Michael close behind. "You are to eliminate the humans. All of them." He sent a careful, dark-eyed stare towards Castiel. "Failure is not an option. May God be with you."

"May God be with you," the Angels echoed. "May God be with you."

But Castiel knew He had left a long, long time ago.

…

Dean Winchester stood before the small circle of hunters, sweat already gathered under his hairline. It was chilly, but he was anxious, his mother's death a violent, fuming cloud above his head.

"Okay, people," he barked over the gathered. "This is it. The war is almost over. All we gotta do is summon one feathery son of a bitch."

Kevin Tran raised his hand. His hair was ruffled and unruly, and a long bruise crossed his cheek.

"How are we gonna do that, Dean?" He said, tiredly. "We're dying. This isn't going to do anything."

"Look, Bobby and Rufus have a plan. We summon an Angel, they sent a liason to negotiate a short rest. It's almost Christmas, anyway,"

Kevin blinked. He raised his hand again.

"It's March second," he offered, confused. Dean sighed. The end of days, and he was stuck with a teenager.

Without another word, he organized the hunters; a few gathered supplies, a few drew the appropriate symbols on the floor of the metal shack they'd found in the field. It was a new ceremony, not the usual one they used. This one was found by Sammy's research.

"We find out their battle tactics, we kill it. Then we go, got it?" Dean barked again. His heart was pounding. It was dark outside, the sky broiling. The Angels were already gathering. He had to work fast.

Sam stood near the back, a lighter already balanced in his palm. He'd already prepared a holy oil circle, ready the catch the Angel when it came.

The other hunter scurried, weary, to the four corners of the shack, taking out their own weapons; daggers and guns and an occasional sword.

"Okay," Dean breathed. He flicked his eyes over to where his brother stood. Grief was painted in colors of sweat and blood over Sam's face. Jess and Mary had hit him hard. "Ready, guys?"

A succession of hesitant nods. Outside, thunder clapped.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. His breath was sharp and controlled, and in his mind he saw his mother's eyes staring unseeing at a gray, bleeding sky.

"As I, uh, stand here," he muttered, cautiously. "I pray to the Angel of Thursday, to come and lay the soul of Mary Winchester, born on a Thursday, to eternal rest."

He opened a single eyes. There was a silence. It was heavy and tepid, and in it, Dean could hear the beginnings of rain drum against the thin sheet metal of the shack.

Kevin Tran and Garth exchanged worried glances. Next to Sam, Charlie Bradbury coughed hesitantly.

"Dean, this isn't work–" Sam began, but just then, something large and dark blinked into existence on the floor, smudging the lines of chalk and blowing out the fires lit in bowl of carefully collected herbs.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted, cocking his own gun, (a Colt, given to him by his father). "It's happening, guys!"

Everyone was silent as the shape became more and more visible. A head. A torso. Two arms, two legs, and a pair of broad, almost-invisible wings spreading from it's back.

It stared at Dean with a pair of bright blue eyes. They were the only part of it's face visible.

He had caught an Angel.

"Now, Sam!" He shouted, and behind the Angel, Sam's hand jerked into action. John Winchester's training had done him well, and he dropped the lighter quickly even as his jaw dropped in awe. A ring of brilliant, ruby-red light erupted around the Angel, and it yanked it's wings upward, trying desperately to get away from the sudden flames.

Dean leaned forward, training his gun. Behind him, Ash and Jo Harvelle did the same.

"Charlie and Garth, go get Bobby," Dean shouted. "Kevin, go help Sam with the other spells."

They did not immediately follow his orders, eyes flicking disbelievingly (hatefully) at the creature in front of them.

"Right, Dean," Jo finally said, her voice husky and strained with fear. "Just..be careful. These things bite."

They left through the front door. Kevin and Sam followed, muttering quietly about some Latin ritual.

And Dean was left alone in the room with the Angel.

(He remembered the slow slide of mud-slash-blood across his mother's cheek. He remembered a red-haired Angel standing over Mary's body, it's female face twisted into a smile).

He stepped forward.

"So," He said, almost too loudly. Outside, rain whipped the shack. The Angel was fully visible now. "You're the Angel of Thursday, huh?"

It did not reply. Dean did not speak either–he'd learned from Alastair that silence was almost as evil as pain.

Instead, he watched it stand. It was unmoving, eyes flickering, and Dean took a moment to note it's appearance.

Male. Dark hair, tossed by wind. Under six feet tall, but not short, really, with an average build and a thing frame. The blue eyes from before looked darker now, controlled.

Dean knew that Angel's weren't always pretty, weren't always handsome. This one, however, was. His heart jumped a little, but he ignored it. He could not get distracted. He needed this information.

"What's your name," he began, hoarsely, because he had nothing else to say.

The Angel shifted slightly on his–it's–feet.

"I am under no orders to converse with you," it said, bluntly. Dean was slightly taken aback by the dark tone, the power behind it. "Release me or be punished, human."

Dean forced a laugh.

"No can do, man," he said, tossing his gun between his hands. "That's holy oil. Can't be taken down by you, and I'm not willing to do it for you. So tell me. What's your name."

For a moment, the Angel just glared, it's fists curling at it's side. It wore a trench-coat, beige, and a suit jacket.

Finally, it spoke.

"Castiel," it said. "My name is Castiel."

* * *

**A/N: This a completed story which I will update in chunks. There will probably be one per week, but...I get distracted easily. Thanks for reading!**

**-chaoswalking**


	2. Chapter 2

He'd been summoned just before the Garrison left for battle. One moment, he stood beside Samandriel, behind Anna's head of red hair, and the next he was flying through cracks in time, slits in dimensions until he fell, loudly, into the human dwelling and the ring of fire.

He thought that fall hurt. Suddenly, he pitied Lucifer.

Castiel did not feel threatened by the ragged gathering of ragged humans in the ragged shack. There was weariness in their eyes. A stench of desperation that mingled with their sweat and perfume.

But he tried to fly away, beat down the quiet flames that surrounded him meekly, and he failed. This wasn't normal. Even at half-power, demoted status, he should be able to destroy the metal shack with just a snap of his fingers. Was there something wrong?

The lead human was arrogant, but he had the most pain in his eyes. He explained, smugly, that it was holy oil.

Castiel had heard tell of Angels burned alive in the ancient days, by demons with too much knowledge. This man had too much knowledge. He was no demon. That, in it's entirety, frightened Castiel the most.

So he humored him with his name.

The man paced on worn-down boots, the soles of which were caked with scarlet mud. He had pale brown hair, dark green eyes, and a face that was strangely familiar to Castiel. He tilted his head, flicking back into his memory, his cache of enemies, to pick out the right face.

"Are you John Winchester?" He finally asked. The man kicked a foot at the holy flames. It did not harm his dying boots. He flicked a glance up at Castiel with a twisted smile.

"No," he said. "I'm Dean."

Dean rocked back on his heels.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel tried the name on his tongue. He was not used to such a short, plain moniker; he was built for elaborate Latin, careful hidden meanings and unspoken signs of rank. This "Dean" was just that. Dean. It was kind of fantastic.

"Weirdest Angel I've ever met," Dean was muttering now. "Maybe the ritual spazzed." He paused to glance warily across the light at Castiel. "You are an Angel, right? Of Thursday?"

Castiel nodded yes, and wondered vaguely what he was doing here. His Grace ached–was it the fire? No, it was something bigger. It was worming through his insides, gnawing relentlessly at his being until–

The wind outside howled. Lightning struck the sky, and through the meager cracks in the metal shack, bright white could be seen outside.

"That was you, huh?" Dean leaned back on his heels. He was rolling a small gold necklace in his hand, the pads of his fingers smoothing along the amulet face. "Well, Dad better hurry his ass up, or you're gonna blow this place to Hell and back.

"I have already been to Hell," Castiel perked up at the mention of something he understood. The lightning, though accidental, had been almost relieving. It showed that he still had something left inside of him, however tamped down. His wings would soon become fully materialized, his flight, impossible. But it was something.

"Really?" Dean sounded skeptical. "You didn't get much of a tan there, I see."

"Hell is cold."

A raised eyebrow. So Castiel continued.

"Hell is cold, like the ice of Lucifer's Grace itself. God, our Father, must have fashioned a prison to his liking out of the goodness of His heart."

With a scoff, Dean dropped his necklace, and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He glanced around the room, checked his watch. Then he started towards the door.

"It's taking too long," he hissed to himself. "They're taking too damn long."

"Wait!" Castiel leaned forward as far as he could go without the fire reaching his outstretched wingtip, his outstretched arm. "Why have you summoned me?"

"Why don't you ask your Daddy," Dean called over his shoulder as he went. "Maybe he'll answer out of the goodness of his heart."

…

When he reached his father's tent, the rain had raised to a violent hail, and seven more cracks of lightning (all near to the metal shack, but not quite there) had broken the sky like a bad egg. Dean supposed he should have been worried–the Angel was angry, apparently–but Sammy's spells and his trap should have worked fine. Besides, it wasn't an Archangel. It wasn't even a special Angel. It was just a soldier, which was what they needed.

"Dad, you're late," Dean called into the tent, pushing the fabric back with scarred, scabbed palms. His back to the door, John Winchester knelt over a bucket. He was scraping the sides of a stake, his hands raw from the splintered wood. The dark shavings fell lightly, one at a time. (They hadn't seen a vampire in years; quietly, Dean wondered what the stake was for).

"Dean, this isn't the best time to bother me with your failed experiments," he said, quietly (but Dean heard it like a shout in his head). "I'm busy."

"It's important, Dad. It didn't friggin' fail. We caught one."

At this, John paused his scraping. His back was hunched, the outline of his spine stark and grief-stricken. He breathed heavily, passing the stake between his red hands.

"You..." he paused, unbelieving. "You got one?"

Dean nodded. Sam passed the mouth of the tent, still chanting Latin spells quietly, under his breath. He raised an eyebrow, but did not comment. Dean gave him a hesitant thumbs-up.

"Yeah. And the shack's all enchanted with that Enochian shit. Sealed tight. Promise."

John Winchester let out a quiet, forced laugh. The stake fell from his hands, and he rose, kicking back his stool. With a smile, he turned to face his eldest son.

"Good work, Dean. Good work. Mary'd be proud." he brushed shavings from his knees, and the light from a nearby candle sent odd, jutting shadows across his face. "I want to meet it, now."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, a smile across his own face. "Yes, sir."

…

At some point, Castiel had lost track of the time. If he closed his eyes and paused his breath (which wasn't really necessary, for an Angel) he could hear the others above. They weren't worried about where he was. They were set on winning the war. He didn't quite know how to feel about this–was all he'd done not enough? He was faithful, dedicated. And he was as easily forgotten as the human lives he'd ended.

"Uriel?" He called, quietly. "Samandriel? Can anyone hear me?"

In his head, there was no response.

The shack was cold, colder than the outside at least. Castiel could feel the Enochian writing on the walls–it was a constant, discordant tug on his remaining Grace, and it hovered at the back of his mind. The fire still burned, but it did nothing to warm his wings. The silence was worse.

He wondered where Dean had gone. Had he died? The war was waging, but only minor battles, between creatures in the dark forests. It was peacetime for the Angels and the hunters. Rest. So then, Castiel thought with a frown, where was the hunter he'd only just met? There had to be a reason for his makeshift cage.

(He didn't want to think the reason was a dying Angel, a symbol of resistance).

Then he heard the voices against the outside rain. Unconsciously, he sent a torrent of hail into their backs.

"It's in here, Dad."

"Jesus Christ, Dean, this place is insane."

"Good, huh? Sammy did those symbol thingies. Kevin helped, and Jo and I built it."

"It looks like a pile of garbage."

"Yeah. 'Bout right, Dad."

Before they opened the door, Castiel sent one last prayer.

Father, let me die in peace.

…

John opened the door with barely contained greed. Dean could not blame him–Mary had been his mother, had sung him songs of sleep and peace, as she had kissed John with all her love–and yet he felt a sense of overbearing dread.

Some deep part of him wanted nothing to do with what was kept in the shack. Another part of him (a destructive, dangerous part) wanted nothing more than to free the Angel inside. He felt a strange connection, a tug, if he would. It irked him.

John shook rain from his coat as he closed the door behind him and Dean, his eyes narrowed against the harsh light of the fire.

He took a step forward.

Then another.

"John Winchester," said Castiel, the Angel of Thursday. His voice was wicked and pale with barely contained hatred. "You are John Winchester."

Dean stepped forward. Castiel tilted his head towards him, without taking his eyes off of John. The effect was unsettling.

"And you have returned, Dean Winchester."

A spark of something in Dean's gut. He watched Castiel. The Angel held the frayed sleeves of his trench-coat with a stony grip.

John leaned close, as far as the fire circle would let him. In his eyes, the flames were ruby and sapphire, a confliction of colors swirled around in grief and anger and bitter blame.

"You," he spat, into the fire. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."

At this, Castiel blinked. It was not a flinch (he was not afraid) but Dean could see the emotion there, barely written in pale skin and blue eyes.

"I don't kill for pleasure," came his reply. John scoffed, curling away to run a hand through his own dusty hair. They hadn't showered in days.

"Like Hell you don't. You fucking Angels don't even know what love means, do you?" He laughed, and it was a sour laugh, a laugh Dean hadn't heard in his entire life. It was not the laugh he'd begged for as a child. It was not the laugh that he'd promised to Sammy.

"Dad, calm down. He isn't the one who killed Mom."

As soon as he said it, the world ended again. The Angels had come, and war called from outside the hut with the sounds of swords and gunshots and the discordant screams of the dying.

John Winchester did not flinch. Dean, suddenly dark-eyed and jittery, flicked his head towards the door.

"Sam," he whined. "Dad, Sammy's out there. I gotta go–"

"Go, Dean. I will come." But John's eyes never left Castiel's face. Behind him, Dean looked torn. He gave Castiel a half-way apologetic glance (it lasted only a moment), before turning his back, knife drawn, to wrench open the door and throw himself into the rainy night.

In the back of his head, Castiel swore he heard the cold shouts of Raphael. He pressed a palm to his temple.

"What are you doing?" John suddenly had a rifle aimed directly at his head. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face, leaked into a his scruffy beard. "You calling the cavalry?"

"I am not your enemy, John Winchester," Castiel replied. There was a sharp jolt as he felt an Angel rip the soul of a human, and toss it aside. "I am not like my brothers and sisters."

John did not lower the rifle. On the contrary, his hands clenched palely around the trigger, one finger playing with the safety.

"I don't think so, Angel boy. You're all killers, here," he said. "You're all the same."

….

Dean was shoved aside by the smaller Angel, heavy brown wings beating him back. The Angel held tight to it's silver dagger, calmness like ice in it's face.

Near him, Sam was coughing up blood. He was doubled up in the dark mud of the ground, rain and hail sliding down his face. There was a blade embedded in his shoulder.

Dean couldn't concentrate. His own body ached, blood leaking from who-knows-where, and his vision slid every which way, but all he could see was Sam.

"Hold on!" He shouted to his brother, throwing his arm up to block an advance from his opponent. "Hold on Sammy, I'm coming!"

The Angel fell only after three more minutes of ugly, hurried fighting. It's wings flailed for a moment, eyes widened. They were blue, just like Castiel's. As it stumbled back, skidding across the wet ground, it's lips curled back to let forth a single word.

"Winchester," it snarled.

It fell, with a thud.

Dean raced to Sam's side.

His hands fell, shaking, across his brother's sweaty forehead. It didn't look good–even as he pressed a palm into the thick, congealed wound on Sam's left shoulder, knife still lodged there, Dean could feel the steady flow of warm blood from severed veins. The bleeding wouldn't stop.

"No, no, buddy, you're gonna be fine," Dean muttered, his heart fluttering. Sam was staring up at him with blank hazel eyes. "Sammy, c'mon, you gotta be fine,"

In the midst of the rain, Dean could make out only one shape.

The shack was slight and dark against the sleet gray sky. Around Dean, Angels and hunters were tangled in desperate war.

He could not save his only brother.

But he knew someone who could. He gathered Sam in his arms, and headed for shack where Castiel and his father waited.


	3. Chapter 3

John Winchester was running out of bullets. Every time be shot Castiel, every single pointless time, he cursed the sound of the bullet smacking into the wall of the shack, useless.

The Angel was covered in blood, but there weren't any bullet holes. He stared impassively at John, red-flecked skin pale in the flickering fire light.

"Call them off," John said for what felt like the hundredth time. "Call them off, or I swear to God I will–"

"Father isn't listening," Castiel said suddenly. He tilted his head, and there was a certain color of sadness in his eyes. "I already tried."

John shot another bullet. This one crashed through Castiel's shoulder, ripping through his bone. But Castiel did not move. He rolled the shoulder calmly, and focused his gaze instead on the door.

"Someone's coming to the door," he said. "They have bad news."

Before John could reply, the door slammed open, and Dean tumbled in. A torrent of sudden rain littered the shack, and with a grunt Dean forced the door shut and locked again.

John's heart nearly shuddered to a stop when he saw Sam, bloody, leaning across Dean's arms.

"No," he whispered, panic eating at his vision. He could see Mary, he could see her death a hundred times in his mind. "Sam–Dean, what happened?"

Dean, however, had lowered Sam to the ground. There was a fire in his eyes, and he suddenly careened forward, a glint of silver in his fist. He crashed past his father, running to stand directly in front of Castiel's expressionless face.

He held his silver knife up so that the Angel could clearly see the inhuman blood that stained the blade. With a gulp of air, Dean began to talk.

"You're gonna fix him, you hear me?" he panted, and it sounded desperate and dangerous. "You can do that, right?"

Castiel's eyes flicked between the motionless Sam (now cradled in John's arms) and the silver knife in Dean's grip.

"How did you–" he began, but Dean cut him off.

"Please," he snarled. "Just...save him."

There was a heavy pause, in which John could have sworn he heard the sound of his son's desperate heartbeat. Finally, Castiel nodded.

"I cannot promise anything," he said, quietly. "But I can attempt to heal your brother's external wounds with my Grace."

Dean backed away, still holding the knife, relief flooding his features. Castiel, however, stayed put.

"What are you waiting for?"

"The holy fire."

Dean nodded. He'd forgotten. He grabbed a flask of water from his pocket, reaching over to douse the flames.

Tentatively, Castiel took a step forward. Then another. He watched the ground almost cautiously as he went, as if expecting a trap.

After three steps, he straightened his head, blue-eyed gaze cold and determined.

"Show me the wounds," he said.

…

His Grace was dying; it was the only plausible reasoning. Castiel felt cold, he felt heavy. He could feel things churning in his veins, but they weren't celestial, they weren't even supernatural. They were human. He was dizzy with losing Grace, and he knew why. Raphael was cutting him off before he could aid the humans.

He leaned down by Sam's side, kneeling in the pooling blood. The human clothes he wore were starting to become as filthy and diluted as the ones the Winchester's and their friends wore, and although it should have bothered Castiel, it seemed the least of his problems.

"I...I can't fix the emotional damage," Castiel let his hand hover above the stab wound in Sam's shoulder. It was serrated and raw, red and blue. "But I can heal the lacerations in the flesh of his left shoulder–"

Dean grabbed Castiel's arm, yanking his hand away from Sam.

"What the fuck does that mean? Emotional damage?" His fingernails were sharp against Castiel's skin.

"The Grace of my brothers and sisters is strong. It is a possibility that Sam may never be the same after I heal him."

Dean's face tightened, but he let go of Castiel's arm. Castiel went back to Sam, pressing his palm into the wound, and readying himself for the inevitable sting of transferring his Grace to another.

It started with a tug, somewhere near where his heart would have been, had he been human. A harmless, painless tug. Castiel felt the warmth of the celestial power stirring in his chest, radiating down his arms, and he almost smiled then, it was so relieving. It reached his fingertips, sweet and soothing.

And then, suddenly, it was the most painful thing Castiel had ever experienced. He choked back a wet noise in his throat. It felt as if something excruciatingly sharp was driving hard into his chest, right through where his Grace was kept, ripping apart his ribcage piece by ivory piece. Blood vessels popped, his mind suddenly filled with a hundred imaginary needles, digging through his skull.

"Jesus! What's...what's happening, Dad?"

He could vaguely hear Dean, vaguely feel Sam's skin mending beneath his shaking fingertips.

"It's healing, Dean. My God..."

Castiel broke the contact.

Sam awoke, gasping on the floor, and his brother and father scrambled to reach him, hands outstretched in unbridled joy. For a moment, the youngest Winchester's hazel eyes reached Castiel's blurred vision. They were questioning. Human.

Castiel fell back on the concrete floor, crawling backwards, clutching his chest. It burned. His Grace–it felt as if it was leaking from every bullet hole in him, every loose end. His eyes, his ears, his mouth. Everything smelled like smoke, the last tattered remains of him, spilling like so much milk across a kitchen floor.

He managed to crawl back ten feet, backing up against the cool corrugated tin of the shack wall before he realized what was wrong.

His wings. They were fully visible, stretched sore behind him.

Castiel the Angel had finally Fallen.

…

Dean noticed Castiel wasn't beside him after a few minutes. Sam was asking bleary questions, and his father was bent over him with a look of pure awe on his scarred face. He was saying the same thing over and over again. "Mary Mary we're gonna be okay, Mary."

Dean straightened reluctantly, the hair at the back of his neck prickling. Even if the Angel had healed Sam, Dean still didn't trust him. He'd only done it to save his own holier-than-thou skin anyway, and for all Dean knew, the preachy bastard was about to smite them all and wing it back to the Upstairs.

But when Dean turned around, silver knife drawn, Castiel was not preparing for some mass revenge massacre. Instead, he was curled against the far wall.

A pair of wings extended from his shoulders, the feathers bent out of shape and stained black with ash and dirt. They were in equal parts horrific and beautiful, frighteningly unnatural.

Dean's breath caught in his throat. He took a tentative step forward. Castiel's face was hidden by the shadows of the wings, his hands clutching at his chest. The tie was coming undone, and his shirt was filthy with blood and dirt.

"Hey," Dean started nervously. "Are you okay?"

It took a moment for Castiel to respond. A long moment. His head slowly tilted back upwards, and when it did, Dean caught a glimpse of a snarl, a certain dry hopelessness in his blue eyes.

"They have left me for dead," The Angel said, and his voice was grating and raspy, as if he hadn't drunk anything for days. (He probably hadn't, Dean reminded him. He'd never had to before.) "Raphael...why...Michael..." He closed his eyes tight, muttering to himself. "Father, they've cast me out! Like dirt, like a demon, like Lucifer himself–"

"Hey! Hey, buddy, uh...don't worry. You're not, um, in Hell, or anything like that."

Castiel went quiet. He rose slowly, hands clenched at his side. His wings drooped by his sides, dragging against the cement floor as he stepped forward, his head tilted to the side in the same calculating, cold fashion that he had regarded John with.

"This is worse than Hell," he said. "This is war."

And then he collapsed to the floor, entirely and humanly unconscious.

…

The Winchesters gathered their ragged troops. Only several hundred were left, now. Garth, and Kevin and his mother. Victor Hendrickson. Ellen and Jo were dead. Their death spread like a disease across the encampment, soiling the relief of the living. Charlie was alive. Krissy Chambers too, and all of the Campbells (excluding Mary). Bobby lived, however sarcastically, but Rufus had gone with the Harvelles.

After the funerals (which were messy and short and filled with raw grief), Dean returned to his tent knotted with weary tension. The war must've been over–the Angels had won.

"You okay?" Sam was sitting cross-legged on one of the sagging cots, a rifle cradled in his hands. Dean scrubbed a hand over his chin, feeling the rough stubble there.

"No. Not really. But you're alive, and Dad's alive, so I guess life could be shittier."

Sam nodded, but it was blank and hollow. His shoulder was still bandaged just in case, and he fiddled with the dirty wrappings over his jacket.

"Dad said it–Castiel–saved me," he said after a moment. Dean snorted.

"He saved himself. You were just the payment."

Sam's eyebrows raised in an almost familiar bitchface.

"I dunno, Dean. The guy was pretty wrecked. I mean, did you see his wings?" He shifted so he lay on his back, guns still cradled, staring at the damp canvas ceiling. "I've never seen an Angel Fall before. I guess he's like us now."

"No, Sammy," Dean snapped tiredly, slumping down on his own cot. His throat burned with sadness. He needed a drink. "He's not like us. He's still a monster." But even as he said it, Dean imagined hopeless eyes, abandoned and alone.

He stopped himself before he got farther than that. Feeling his bones creak, he forced himself to stand, bruises straining across blood-tightened skin.

"Where're you going?" Sam asked from his cot, not removing his stare from the ceiling.

"Out," Dean replied. "Get some sleep, bitch."

An emotionless smile.

"Jerk."

Dean left.

...

He found himself standing outside the tent where they'd put Castiel, almost by accident. Accident because he'd really meant to sneak out and find some of Bobby's harder booze, and almost because he'd known exactly where the tent was all along, and couldn't really blame his sudden appearance at the entrance on forgetfulness or ignorance.

With hapless curiosity burning hot inside of him, he pushed the flap up gently, and poked his way in.

Castiel was asleep on the cot in the right-hand corner. They hadn't bothered to put a guard on him (not enough people to spare), but there were Enochian sigils all over the place, and a pair of rusty handcuffs linked his right wrist to the pole of the cot.

Dean sighed. He really wished the guy would wake up–it was lonely in camp, and he needed someone to talk to. Someone besides Sam (who really just made him worry) or his father. Even Garth and Kevin were getting tiring, and he never understood a word out of Charlie's mouth, anyhow.

Castiel's wings were even more visible now. Whatever magic he'd been using to conceal them was clearly washed up, jerked away by some higher-up feathery ass-clown. Dean still half expected him to wake up suddenly, electricity flowing from his fingertips, and destroy them all in a bloody wave of white light.

But instead, Castiel shifted in his sleep, snoring slightly. Dean gave a half smile before to turning to leave.

Halfway to the door, however, Castiel awoke.

"Dean Winchester." He sounded weary, as if the sleep had done him no good. "You have returned."

Dean turned. Castiel was sitting up on the cot, his hair mussed even more than it had been when Dean had first met him. His eyes bore into Dean's, and for an instant Dean forgot he was Fallen. He could be damn threatening when he wanted to be.

"Yeah. Yeah, I kinda live here?" Dean fought to keep the sarcasm from his voice, but it was a losing battle. "Pretty hard to ditch when you're being massacred where you stand."

At this, Castiel sighed, trying to smooth his hair down with his free hand. It didn't work, and he looked a little guilty. After an awkward silence Dean realized he was staring. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, anyway, I just came to see if you were, like, hungry or something."

Castiel frowned.

"I don't require sustenance," he replied. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Well, clearly your battery ain't fully charged, so I figured I'd ask," he said, somewhat abrasively. "Well, go back to sleep then, Your Highness."

He was almost out the door this time before Castiel called him back.

"Wait. Dean–"

"I'll go get us some breakfast," Dean answered before he could finish. He could have sworn Castiel looked grateful as he left, the tent door swaying slightly in the stiff morning breeze.


	4. Chapter 4

The human food was nothing like he expected. It had a sweet aftertaste, although it was initially dry and flavorless, and Castiel felt strangely better after eating it.

"It's just bread, dude, you don't have to look at like it's a cheeseburger," Dean said around a mouthful of his own food. Castiel didn't know what a cheeseburger was, but surely, it couldn't have been better than this.

He found himself enjoying Dean's company. Well, perhaps enjoying wasn't the correct word (he was, after all, imprisoned in a human war camp) but at least that all-encompassing emptiness he'd felt at being abandoned to Fall wasn't too harsh while Dean was there. He had someone new to talk to. That was different, exciting. Someone who wasn't his brother or sister.

He asked Dean questions about things he'd always been curious of: why humans never flew in planes anymore, why humans fought amongst themselves so often, what in the world was American football, really. They were stupid questions, but Dean answered them animatedly.

"Well, see, there's really no sport better than baseball in my opinion, but football's okay. I mean, it's pretty dangerous, all that head-squashing, but in a dignified way, y'know?" He chewed on his bread. "And the cheerleaders are totally worth it all."

"Cheerleaders?" Castiel tilted his head. He knew it bothered Dean, but he really couldn't help the movement–it was almost mechanical.

"Yeah," Dean grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. "Y'know, hot girls in tiny outfits? With pom-poms?" He sighed. "I dated a cheerleader in high school, once. Name was Claire, or something like that."

"Do they lead any cheering, though?"

A snort.

"Not really. Not on TV, at least. But then, I guess they do other things, too."

Seeing Castiel's look of confusion escalate, Dean let out a barking laugh.

"Oh, come on, Cas, don't tell me you've never had a little fun up there in Bible Camp?" He discarded his bread, swallowing the last piece, and turning to stare at Castiel incredulously. Castiel felt suddenly uncomfortable, shifting awkwardly under that green stare. He bent his wings back so he could lean against the edge of the cot.

"No. I have been...rather busy." He looked around desperately, hoping for something to ask Dean to distract him. But Dean, it seemed, was entirely intent on having this unnecessarily burdensome conversation about human conjugation rituals.

"Really? Guy like you? That's a shame, Cas," he looked suddenly sad. "Do you...you know...miss anyone up there? I mean, you had to have had friends, or something," he bit his lip and shrugged. "Well, maybe not a 'friend with benefits', but someone to hang with, right?"

Castiel remembered the day Gabriel left. The day Lucifer Fell.

"Yes," he said darkly, but his heart wasn't in it. "You could say I had friends."

Dean must have caught the taste of melancholy leaking from Castiel's words, because he scooted closer, looking strangely concerned.

"Jesus, I'm a dick," he muttered. "Sorry, I didn't mean to...to..."

"Remind me of 'home sweet home'?" Castiel was suddenly upset, an unfamiliar emotion crashing haphazardly through his veins. "Of all the people I betrayed, coming down to help you? Yes, Dean, I'm sure you didn't mean it, just like you didn't mean the holy fire, or the Angel blade, or showing up with my sister's blood on your knife." He stood, however awkwardly, his wings stretching out to graze the sides of the tent, towering over the still-seated Dean. "I've become the worst kind of sinner, Dean and it's all because of you."

For a minute, Castiel could feel the remnants of his shattered Grace struggling to break free and destroy everything in the vicinity. It was white hot, like a desperate fire held hostage in his ribcage, and Castiel yearned let it free.

And then he felt strange.

Dean's hand was on his shoulder. His face was startlingly close to Castiel's, and suddenly Castiel lost the violent control of his Grace. It was buried again.

"Sorry, Cas," Dean mumbled, not taking his eyes off of Castiel's. "I'm sorry for everything."

When Dean kissed him, Castiel felt wholly and wonderfully human.

…

"Dean? Dean, your dad needs you!"

The high, tired voice of Charlie Bradbury broke the kiss. Dean, suddenly aware of his lips on an Angel's, tore away violently. He pushed away from the equally shocked Castiel, breath coming out in short waves.

"What–" Castiel started blankly, but Dean was not there to listen to whatever he said afterwards. He was pushing out the door, hanging on to the thread of Charlie's request.

Charlie was staring past him in confusion, her red hair flecked with mud and grease, when he reached her.

"Were you in the Angel's tent, Dean?" she asked suspiciously. Her eyes flicked towards him. "It's still dangerous, you know. It's still not human."

"His name is Cas," Dean snapped back. "And it's none of your business where I go, nerd."

Charlie rolled her eyes.

"Your dad wants you out by the armory. Says they're gonna plan the next attack."

Dean pushed past her, mud already slicking his boots. He didn't want to know what that meant, but he didn't really have a choice; it was his family asking, the fate of the human race resting on their sore shoulders.

As he walked away from Charlie (ignoring her teasing glances), Dean found that suddenly he wished he'd never summoned an Angel in the first place.

He never liked Thursdays much anyway.

…

John Winchester watched his son arrive, out of breath and shell-shocked. Of course, this was normal. They were all like this, all the shuddering souls trapped in this hell-hole of a battleground. It must have been a nice camping ground once, maybe a soccer field or something, but now it was bloody and desperate, dirty feathers and broken bones littering the rain-soaked ground.

John was just glad he had two sons left. He supposed he should be thanking Castiel for that, but he didn't want to admit he was rather fond of the Angel. Who knew what the others would do to him (or his sons) if they found out about that.

So John let them think he wasn't killing the Angel because it had valuable information. They were reluctant at first, but John Winchester was a powerful man.

He ran a tired hand over his jaw. Mary would've killed him for growing such a ragged beard, but John didn't want to think of that. Mary would have a lot to say about the last forty-eight hours.

"Dean," he nodded in his son's direction. "You're here. Good. We can begin."

He turned to address the gathered crowd. Bobby was there, besides John with his ancient baseball hat tipped over his eyes in a gesture of sorrow and determination. Ellen had been a good friend to him.

On his other side stood Gordon Walker. John had never liked the man–he was reckless and violent, too smart for such a dangerous person. But he was in charge now, and there wasn't much John could do about it.

Gordon cleared his throat, dark eyes flashing towards Dean for a moment.

"This is it," he started, and his voice was loud and heavy in the morning air. "This is our last stand. We will die. Everyone does. But we can die today, or die tomorrow, our choice." He paused to watch the sullen faces surrounding him, men, women and children. John saw the cold detachment written there. "I vote tomorrow."

The people nodded around them. A heavy woman in a rain parka shouted an "amen".

Gordon smiled, his teeth too white in his dirty, blood-streaked face. He took a step forward, and John felt suddenly uneasy.

"We have to hit the Angels where it hurts," he said. "Figure out their flight patterns. We have one of them here,"

Following this, the crowd began to murmur and shift, shock and anger roiling through their numbers. Someone shouted "kill it", another, "fuck you, Gordon, you're lying again". Someone else entirely began to cry, the sound swallowed by the musty solemnity of the gathering.

"Gordon, you don't want to tell them that," Bobby was growling, adjusting his hat with a white-knuckled grip. But Gordon was ignoring him, iron calm in his eyes. It frightened John, and besides him, Dean was fidgeting too.

"We can get information from it, before we kill it. The Angel's strategies! Their leaders. We can get it all," and now John's stomach was burning, and now John felt sick because he's thinking of his youngest son bleeding out on the floor, stitched up by the final pieces of Castiel's Grace. He shoves forward past a pale-faced Dean, moving to grab Gordon by the arm.

"You can't do this, Gordon. That thing saved Sam's life. It was helping us then, it can help us now–"

"Shut up, old man," Gordon sneered, shoving John backwards. He slammed into Dean, and Bobby's face curled into a snarl of anger, rifle nearly aimed towards Gordon's face. "You're pathetic. You're so lost in the death of your bitch of a wife that you can't even see a snowball's chance when it's spitting in your face."

Dean was aiming his Colt at Gordon too, now, eyes wide and violent.

"You fucking bastard! You take that back, you hear me?" He was screaming, his father's hands yanking him back, the crowd giving him a wide, frightened berth.

Bobby was trying to calm down the people, shooting daggers with his eyes into Gordon's back, but there was nothing he could do. He'd only get shot, or worse, if he interfered with Gordon's ways.

And Gordon smiled. He watched it all with white teeth and cold eyes.

"I want you to do the honors, Dean," he said, loud enough for them all to hear. "I know what Alistair taught you all those nights alone, and I know what you and the Angel have been doing together when Daddy and Sammy aren't looking."

Dean's face slipped from pure anger into dangerous malcontent, his grip on the Colt tightening.

"You don't know anything, Walker," John cut in, but Gordon wasn't listening. The crowd had grown quiet, and the sound of his boots against the icy mud was loud and jarring in the sudden silence as he walked over to Dean.

"I know more than you think," he snarled. "And I can't wait to see the look on Dean's face when he sees what happens to a Fallen Angel when they die."

He leaned in close to finish his words, and his breath smelled like blood and dry leaves and maybe a little of Bobby's whiskey, stolen last night.

"They burn up, boy," he whispered. "Nothing left but a stain of ash."

...

Castiel, despite his drastic change of scenery, was still a good soldier. He knelt down besides his cot, the knees of his dress pants already wearing through, and raised his head.

"Father," he started, but that didn't sound right. Clearly his father had abandoned him, had left the building. He shifted so he sat cross-legged on the ground, wings tucked to his back, free wrist resting somewhat comfortably against his knee. The tent was suffocatingly small, and although he'd only seen a small portion of Heaven since his creation, Castiel was still a creature of sky, and he yearned then for the freedom it brought.

So he began a new prayer.

"Brothers," he began. "Sisters. Please. I'm...I'm lost. I do not understand what is happening to me. I feel things, human things. I feel anger and sorrow and pain and..." he paused. "And I feel love and it confuses me." He could almost hear the other Angels stirring at this, their distant voices a soft rustle at the back of his skull. He closed his eyes, clenched his fist. "But don't kill the humans. They have so much to learn. I can still see good in them, I can still see what Father wanted them to be, what he wanted us to grow in them."

Outside, he could hear footfalls and shouting, the sounds of peacetime in the middle of war. A little girl laughing. A man crying, shouting someone's name over and over again. Now, Castiel addressed his prayer directly to Michael, directly to Raphael. He opened his eyes as he said it, climbing to his feet and unfurling his wings, summoning what left of his power to send a rumble of thunder through the sky.

"I will not let you destroy them," he chanted Michael's name in his mind, sending a wave of communication out over Heaven. The voices rustled again, disturbed and jostling. "I, Castiel, Angel of Thursday, will not let you kill the Winchesters."

As if in reply, rain began to fall. It fell suddenly, violently, and the force of it made the tent creak and moan, rivulets of rain sliding in through moldy cracks in the canvas.

Castiel fell silent. He had spoken, and Michael had heard.

All he had to do now was wait.

…

Dean slid his hands over the barrel of the Colt. The cold metal gave his mind a rest. The slide of his fingertips across it distracted him from remembering what Castiel's lips tasted like.

He thought darkly on Gordon's words–was Cas really Fallen? He supposed he'd thought of it off-handedly, as his wings were visible and he seemed unable to smite anybody's face off at the moment, but he'd never really stopped to think about it. Wasn't the Devil a Fallen Angel? What did that make Cas?

And when the Hell had he started giving Angels nicknames?

"Damn." Dean paced, his gun heavy in his hands. His father had warned him against rebellion, against calling unwanted attention to himself. And yet, Dean felt the sudden urge to act out. He wanted to break something, kill something, kick something. It just wasn't fair.

And Cas–he was Cas now, Dean decided–hadn't actually killed anyone, had he? Gordon had no right to insinuate where he had not trod.

But had Cas?

Dean tried to imagine pale eyes narrowed in darkness, mouth twisted into a cruel, trench-coat whipping around in the wind as hands drove a knife deep into the chest cavity of a hapless victim.

(Cas would look good in someone else's red).

He pushed the thoughts from his mind. Sam was coming towards him, worry written in capital letters on his face. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he looked weary.

"Dean!" He was out of breath. "Dean, you can't do this,"

"You think I don't know that, Sammy?" Dean snapped back. Sam looked taken aback at first. He scrunched his nose up in distaste, then anxiety.

"We have to do something then," he said, twining his arms defiantly across his chest. "I talked to Dad. He's furious. He said Gordon'll never suspect him if he can sneak Castiel out of here–"

"Dammit, Sammy!" Dean slammed a fist into his own palm. It stung. "Godammit, Sam," he said, quieter this time. "I'm not doing it. I'm not risking you again for an...an Angel."

Even as he said it, his stomach squirmed in cold discomfort. He didn't want to imagine Cas dead.

Sam didn't look fazed.

"He saved my life, Dean," he growled. "And I'm gonna save his, with or without your help."

"Not gonna happen. I won't let you." Dean turned away, already preoccupied with thoughts of blades and funerals and kissing. But Sam stalked up behind him, his size advantage finally useful, grabbing Dean's shoulder and spinning him around angrily.

"I'm not a kid anymore, Dean," he shouted. "How many times do I have to say this? You. Don't. Control. Me."

He snarled the last four words, hazel eyes black with anger.

They stood in heated silence for a moment, Sam still seething. Dean just stood blankly, gazing into his brother's face with a sort of detached misery.

After a moment, he shook his head, shoulders stooped in weary resignation.

"You're right, Sam," he replied, and his voice was husky and dry. "I don't control you. I just protect you."

He walked away.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean was back at Castiel's tent by the time the rain began to fall. It was sudden, unexpected, a pale curtain in the otherwise bright morning. Grey clouds veiled the sky once more, and the sun beat down in half-earnest, broken lemon shafts.

This was the last time he'd ever see the Angel. Dean walked quickly, because his heart was beating too fast for his chest. He tried, in vain, to think of a mere few days ago, when his mother lived and Castiel was just a name in a log of names that he was born to hate. Just "Thursday's Angel", written in ballpoint between leather covers.

It was difficult.

(The slightly sweet taste of Castiel's kiss still lingered like a disease in Dean's memories. It was Cas' first kiss, he realized. It would be his last.)

"Cas, man, you awake?" he opened the flap gingerly, and he forced his nervous guilt back down his throat.

Cas was indeed awake. He stood silently in the corner, eyes focused on a spot on the ceiling, brow furrowed in concentration. There was a sliver of blood leaking from his left eye, and the pale liquid looked unnatural, and strange. It didn't belong to a human being.

"Hello, Dean," he murmured, but he wasn't paying attention.

"Cas..." Dean took a tentative step forward. "Cas, what's wrong with your face?"

A pause. Castiel contemplated.

"There is no fault," he began. "I am only trying to talk to them." Seeing the confusion on Dean's face, he softened his expression. "My siblings," he explained. "I'm trying to say goodbye."

At this, Dean grew cold. Had Castiel guessed his orders? Did Angels have some sort of mind-reading power? If then, he would have seen images of his own death, images of Dean killing him, images of Gordon, whispering the same thing in Dean's ear over and over again.

Do you know what happens to a Fallen Angel when they die?

"They burn up, Dean." Castiel spoke suddenly. "And in case you are wondering, it's not mind-reading. It's your soul. I can see it."

Dean ignored the pounding in his ears. Instead, he sat down on the cot, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Why're you saying goodbye, Cas?" he asked, but it wasn't so much of a question as a demand.

Cas looked away, sighing. His shoulder unwound, and his dark shadows of wings stretched backwards as he sat down besides Dean on the cot. He'd smoothed his hair down, but now his trench-coat was rumpled and his tie was backwards again. Dean resisted the urge to adjust it.

"I have lived for many millenia, Dean," he said. "I am not a stupid creature."

"Never said that."

Castiel smiled, but it was distant and small.

"I know when I am alone, Dean." He gestured around the tent with a single hand. "And I am going to die here because I am truly alone."

Dean was quiet for a minute. He shifted on the cot's lumpy mattress. The proximity of Castiel was slightly dizzying, the simultaneous forbidden and romantic aspects of it gnawing at Dean's wires. It made him slightly woozy, and he had to take a breath before moving again, lest he self-destruct.

He didn't respond to Castiel. Instead, he slid a hand into his pocket, pulling out a bobby pin and leaning over the lock on the rusty handcuffs, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"What are you doing?" Instead of looking grateful, Castiel looked curious.

"Saving your ass," Dean replied.

...

Dean's hand was warm and calloused over Castiel's cold palm. He could feel the human's erratic heartbeat through his fingertips, the veins throbbing and convulsing with it. Castiel squeezed his hand back in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

"Sure you can't hide these?" Dean plucked at one long, blinking feather. It flickered out of view for a moment before re-appearing besides Dean's hand. "I mean, it'll be hard to get you out of here with your wings poking out."

"Not with Grace," Castiel answered. He was tired, and his own heart was suddenly painfully loud. "I could fold them, but it would still look strange without sufficient cover."

Dean bit his lip. He thought a moment, green eyes raking the tent, before cracking a conspiratorial grin. He started to shuck his leather jacket from his shoulders.

"Here," he said, draping it over Castiel's now folded wingspan. "We'll do that. I'll tell anyone we see you're my date." He gave a snort of derision.

Castiel didn't understand that reference, but he liked how the jacket smelled like Dean and alcohol. It was a warm combination.

He blinked up at Dean.

"Where are we going to go?" he asked.

Dean looked momentarily far away, and Castiel thought he saw a spark of regret in his face.

"I dunno. Away, I guess," he turned to give Castiel a charmingly sideways grin. "Anywhere but here."

"What about your brother?"

At this, Dean was silent. Castiel caught tiny flickers of his thoughts, muffled waves of energy and emotion and colors all tossed up and thrown from his mind like brightly colored confetti.

Castiel thought that maybe Dean was going to change his mind. The jacket was suddenly heavy across his shoulders–he thought of Sam Winchester, all alone. Of all people, Castiel should understand that.

Before he could say anything however, Dean spoke again.

"I'll say goodbye, Cas," he answered. "And then I'll come back for him when we find someplace to stay."

His voice was cold and rusty, like he'd poured crushed ice down his windpipe and let it melt slowly into his vocal cords. Castiel shook his head.

"No, Dean. They will kill him when they notice us missing." He dragged the jacket further around his frame. "We must bring him with us. It's the only way."

Suddenly, Dean's hands were gripping Castiel's arms tight, his eyes wide with something akin to fear. It rolled off of him in red, pulsing waves, and his thoughts spiked darkly with it. Castiel could no longer pick out emotions with his Grace.

"Dammit, Cas, I can't leave! There are people here. They need my help!" He backed up, raising his hands to clutch the sides of his head. "Oh God. Bobby and Dad and Charlie and Kevin and Garth. All of them. Even Victor fucking Hendrickson. They're all gonna die in this shithole if I go and it's all...it's all my fault!"

He lowered his hands to look now at Castiel. The Angel was frozen there, unsure of how to handle the outbreak of unfamiliar emotions. He felt a spike of something in his chest.

"I'm sorry, Cas," he said finally, with a low huff of breath. "I'm really, really sorry."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. He shifted underneath the jacket, and the alcohol smell felt sweet when he breathed in.

"Why, Dean?"

"Because you're my fault too. If I hadn't been an asshole you'd still have your mojo. Hell, you'd still be hanging out with the God Squad like you're supposed to. Instead you're sitting in a crappy tent with a bunch of desperate idiots in the middle of a rainstorm," he shook his head. "Doesn't seem fair."

For a brief moment, Castiel felt strange. He reached out to slip his hand into Dean's again. That spike in his chest again.

"I have lived for a long time, Dean Winchester," he said quietly. "Hundreds of thousands of years. I saw humanity crawl from the banks of a river. I saw humanity as a single fish, flopping on the shore."

"Big plans for that fish, I guess," Dean mumbled, with a half-hearted chuckle. "Good thing you didn't step on it."

"The point is, Dean," Castiel continued, unbothered by the interruption. "I have lived for many millenium. But I never felt alive until I met you."

It was then that they heard the gunshots.

Dean broke away from Castiel, dashing fast to the tent entrance to see what was happening. Castiel watched him from where he stood, a sudden chill sweeping his veins.

"What's wrong, Dean?" he asked. "What's happening?"

But Dean did not give an answer. He leaned forward, catching Castiel's wrist between his fingers. Without a word, he yanked Castiel forward, out the door, into the cold gray wall of rain.

Standing there with his hair plastered wet to his forehead was Sam Winchester. In his hands he held a single gun. Across the camp, Gordon Walker's body slumped against a rock, one bullet hole dark in his temple.

Sam regarded them with foggy hazel eyes. He said one word.

"Run."

...


End file.
